Neal Page's somewhat subdued reaction to a comment by Del Griffith in Planes, Trains, Automobiles ("I've never seen a man picked up by his testicles like that before!") bears closer examination in these troubles times. We, us, everyone are all being picked up by our testicles, ie, they've got us by the balls big time...male or female notwithstanding.
The price of gasoline alone is prime evidence of this perplexing, ubiquitous situation. The fuel-price-gouging screw job happens every summer, only this time it's quite a bit worse than last year...and the year before that, and the year before that, etc.
Conservatives want to open up drilling off the coast of California and build a shit pot of new nuclear (not nucular) power plants. Liberals? Well, they're not sure yet. They are sure they don't want to disturb the sea otters or run the risk of irradiating entire city populations when that China syndrome thing inevitably happens.
One thing is for sure. Earth dwellers will use up the available oil and gas resources in a relatively short amount of time. Not until that future is tapping us on the shoulder...check that, rapping us up the side of head, will we commit to doing something truly productive. Maybe the solution is in the politics of dealing with the world's oil reserve mongers (for lack of a better term). We use most of this stuff, can't we just tell them to piss off? We could, but that wouldn't make them go bankrupt or change their stingy demeanor. They are already set for life if they didn't pump another single gallon out of the sand. The oil-rich countries afar are well invested and immensely diversified. Their citizens will always enjoy $.45 a gallon Techron no matter what happens.
So, in the meantime, we as Americans just "roll with the flow". Still satisfied to be held by the gonads at the am/pm gas islands. But unlike Neal Page, whose excruciating testicular pain eventually subsided after a couple of Del Griffith's mini airline cocktails back at the motel... ours will not.
As the saying goes, one never forgets how to ride a bicycle. Unfortunately, not enough of us are willing to give it go.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Occam's Razor, Tim Russert, and that damn half full glass!
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. KISS - keep it simple stupid. Why are you making this so complicated? It's obvious to the most casual observer. Occam's Razor.
Tim Russert. NBC's Meet the Press moderator died Friday, he was 58.
If you don't think that life is short, consider this. The old saying goes, "The glass is not half empty, the glass is half full". If you're over 50, "The glass is not half empty, it's three quarters empty, or one quarter full". And that one quarter is what we in this age group have left to work and live with.
I have never been a raving fan of Tim Russert, Meet the Press, or politics in general. But this guy was one of most straight-forward, get-to-the-point journalists of our generation. Professionally, he was living his dream reporting on the political arena, especially this campaign in particular. Russert may have been one of those rare individuals who was self-actualized...doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing at a certain point in time...and loving it. He was the same age as I am when he died today, 58. Maybe that is why his passing has affected me more than usual celebrity obituary. They say it was a heart attack.
As an television journalist with a degree in law, he was one of few in this profession who probably subscribed to the principles of Occam's Razor...paraphrased, "All things being equal, the simplest solution is the best". He ask politicians the most basic questions in every interview, and that usually made them squirm in their seats. Tim Russert managed to slice through the usual political rhetoric when moderating Meet the Press, helping us make some sense of the smoke and mirrors that politicians excel at throwing into journalistic exchanges. I thank him for that. A sad day in the world of television journalism. And a sad and early end to someone who was helping all of us understand the confusing politics of this presidential campaign.
If you are over 50, your glass is still at least one quarter full. That's at least three fingers of fine Tequila! Break out the salt, a fresh lime, and make the best of that while you still can. It can all end too damn fast! And, by the way, Keep It Simple Stupid. For that, we can thank that 14th century Franciscan friar named William...of Ockham.
Tim Russert. NBC's Meet the Press moderator died Friday, he was 58.
If you don't think that life is short, consider this. The old saying goes, "The glass is not half empty, the glass is half full". If you're over 50, "The glass is not half empty, it's three quarters empty, or one quarter full". And that one quarter is what we in this age group have left to work and live with.
I have never been a raving fan of Tim Russert, Meet the Press, or politics in general. But this guy was one of most straight-forward, get-to-the-point journalists of our generation. Professionally, he was living his dream reporting on the political arena, especially this campaign in particular. Russert may have been one of those rare individuals who was self-actualized...doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing at a certain point in time...and loving it. He was the same age as I am when he died today, 58. Maybe that is why his passing has affected me more than usual celebrity obituary. They say it was a heart attack.
As an television journalist with a degree in law, he was one of few in this profession who probably subscribed to the principles of Occam's Razor...paraphrased, "All things being equal, the simplest solution is the best". He ask politicians the most basic questions in every interview, and that usually made them squirm in their seats. Tim Russert managed to slice through the usual political rhetoric when moderating Meet the Press, helping us make some sense of the smoke and mirrors that politicians excel at throwing into journalistic exchanges. I thank him for that. A sad day in the world of television journalism. And a sad and early end to someone who was helping all of us understand the confusing politics of this presidential campaign.
If you are over 50, your glass is still at least one quarter full. That's at least three fingers of fine Tequila! Break out the salt, a fresh lime, and make the best of that while you still can. It can all end too damn fast! And, by the way, Keep It Simple Stupid. For that, we can thank that 14th century Franciscan friar named William...of Ockham.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Take the bus, and leaving the crazy-ass driving to us!
I'm not a regular bus person. I don't use local "rapid" transit near my home, nor do I take longer bus trips to visit relatives in other parts of the state or the country. But circumstances demanded that I use an alternate form of transportation this past weekend. I needed to pick up a car recently purchased on eBay. This particular jaunt would terminate in my old stomping ground, so a visit with my mom and my son seemed like the right thing to do as well.
Overall, my bus ride from Modesto to Grover Beach was relatively uneventful. Not to say there weren't several interesting chapters and characters along the way. One can not spend over eleven hours on four separate buses and not experience something a bit out of kilter. By the way, the eleven hours were spent traveling about 250 miles! And that was on the itinerary by design.
First, there was the two hour delay in departing Modesto. Scheduled departure time: 4:55 am. Actual departure time: 6:40 am. My bus arrived at the stop nearly two hours late. And at that time of the morning, the station office is not open and no information was available as to the why's and the when's. Loretta and I simply sat in the dark in the parking lot and waited. I found out later from a passenger that the previous 650 mile leg of the trip (originating in Oregon) suffered through four driver changes, most of which drove too slowly! My planned two and half hour layover (and transfer) in Fresno was reduced to 25 minutes and I was back on schedule boarding bus #2.
A short 30 minutes later, I arrived at Goshen Junction, just off Highway 99. I waited 20 minutes for my next bus at the only stop in which I took any photos. Check out the these shots of the luxurious Goshen Junction Bus Depot and Senseless Casino.
There were no slot machines or crap tables. Just a lot of old crap, a Greyhound bus sign, a small office, disgusting restrooms, and some dirt. The casino had long-since closed. No snack bar, no waiting room, no drinking fountain, and (as you can see) very little shade. The graffiti on the ladies' room door reads, "Women...enter at your own risk!" How accommodating? I was smack dab in the middle of Central California, but it felt like I was stranded in a scene from The Grapes of Wrath. Shame on you Greyhound.
To be fair, the next two stops were at near new Amtrak stations in Hanford and San Luis Obispo. But that's Amtrak. And, the last two buses were Amtrak as well.
One of the highlights of my bus adventure was listening to conversations between passengers. Total strangers striking up short term, verbal relationships across the aisle. One exchange of note almost ended in a fist fight between an old man traveling to his niece's wedding and a 40-ish burned out hag who decided to demean the old guy for taking a stand on religion. Another passenger close by said, "Maybe we should change the topic of conversation. Let's talk about my divorce!" That comment was followed by a few muffled chuckles as she commenced to document in detail how her marriage of 25 years recently ended when her husband ran off with the cleaning lady. A younger woman across the aisle from her commiserated by saying her spouse took off last year with their babysitter. A young mother traveling with her 8 month old baby trumped them all by saying, "I just got out of Chowchilla women's prison where I had my baby. My husband killed a friend of ours and is doing a life sentence in San Quentin". It was then I decided NOT to chime in with my sad story, "Well, I sold my old Porsche on eBay this week...and the buyer flaked out on paying! Gotta relist it." My saga paled in comparison to the other stories I had been privileged to hear on this bus.
The conversations between those passengers waned as our bus headed into the hilly, construction-laden pass on Highway 41 toward Paso Robles. We all found ourselves on a new thrill ride called Mr. Toad's Wild Late Bus Ride to Hell.
Our octogenarian bus driver (yes, he was 85 if he was a day!) announced at the beginning of this leg that he was 30 minutes late and didn't know when we would get into San Luis Obispo (about 60 miles away). Picture a full-size Greyhound bus highballing it down an old, curvy two-lane highway at 70 miles an hour, tailgating and passing slower cars as it gained speed. At this point, all conversations ceased as every passenger grasped their armrests and hung on for dear life. Near the back of the bus, four elderly passengers joined hands, recited Hail Mary's, and gave each other communion of Cheese Nips and swigs from a bottle of Ripple in a paper bag. I opted not to join them. The bus driver's demeanor reminded me of that scene from Dr. Strangelove where Slim Pickens road the atomic bomb down to its target...yahoo-ing and waving his ten-gallon stetson over his head! We were careening down the hill at 75 miles an hour toward the Highway 46/41 junction where James Dean died back in the fifties. How appropriate I die in a bus crash here?
Well, I am not writing this blog from a hospital bed, or worse, from the grave. I made it to Grover Beach 10 minutes ahead of schedule! I got to spend a couple of days with my mom near Pismo Beach, visit with son Jimmy, and pick up the car I had purchased. The trip back to Modesto in the 1992 Subaru SVX went smoothly. The seller even filled the gas tank before I picked up the car.
I also had time to hang out for a while at one of my favorite Central Coast ocean spots and visit with my sister Kris and brother-in-law Mark. Not to mention the quality time spent with my mom and my son. It was a good trip after all. And, I will send Disney a letter suggesting a new thrill ride at their theme parks!
Overall, my bus ride from Modesto to Grover Beach was relatively uneventful. Not to say there weren't several interesting chapters and characters along the way. One can not spend over eleven hours on four separate buses and not experience something a bit out of kilter. By the way, the eleven hours were spent traveling about 250 miles! And that was on the itinerary by design.
First, there was the two hour delay in departing Modesto. Scheduled departure time: 4:55 am. Actual departure time: 6:40 am. My bus arrived at the stop nearly two hours late. And at that time of the morning, the station office is not open and no information was available as to the why's and the when's. Loretta and I simply sat in the dark in the parking lot and waited. I found out later from a passenger that the previous 650 mile leg of the trip (originating in Oregon) suffered through four driver changes, most of which drove too slowly! My planned two and half hour layover (and transfer) in Fresno was reduced to 25 minutes and I was back on schedule boarding bus #2.
A short 30 minutes later, I arrived at Goshen Junction, just off Highway 99. I waited 20 minutes for my next bus at the only stop in which I took any photos. Check out the these shots of the luxurious Goshen Junction Bus Depot and Senseless Casino.
There were no slot machines or crap tables. Just a lot of old crap, a Greyhound bus sign, a small office, disgusting restrooms, and some dirt. The casino had long-since closed. No snack bar, no waiting room, no drinking fountain, and (as you can see) very little shade. The graffiti on the ladies' room door reads, "Women...enter at your own risk!" How accommodating? I was smack dab in the middle of Central California, but it felt like I was stranded in a scene from The Grapes of Wrath. Shame on you Greyhound.
To be fair, the next two stops were at near new Amtrak stations in Hanford and San Luis Obispo. But that's Amtrak. And, the last two buses were Amtrak as well.
One of the highlights of my bus adventure was listening to conversations between passengers. Total strangers striking up short term, verbal relationships across the aisle. One exchange of note almost ended in a fist fight between an old man traveling to his niece's wedding and a 40-ish burned out hag who decided to demean the old guy for taking a stand on religion. Another passenger close by said, "Maybe we should change the topic of conversation. Let's talk about my divorce!" That comment was followed by a few muffled chuckles as she commenced to document in detail how her marriage of 25 years recently ended when her husband ran off with the cleaning lady. A younger woman across the aisle from her commiserated by saying her spouse took off last year with their babysitter. A young mother traveling with her 8 month old baby trumped them all by saying, "I just got out of Chowchilla women's prison where I had my baby. My husband killed a friend of ours and is doing a life sentence in San Quentin". It was then I decided NOT to chime in with my sad story, "Well, I sold my old Porsche on eBay this week...and the buyer flaked out on paying! Gotta relist it." My saga paled in comparison to the other stories I had been privileged to hear on this bus.
The conversations between those passengers waned as our bus headed into the hilly, construction-laden pass on Highway 41 toward Paso Robles. We all found ourselves on a new thrill ride called Mr. Toad's Wild Late Bus Ride to Hell.
Our octogenarian bus driver (yes, he was 85 if he was a day!) announced at the beginning of this leg that he was 30 minutes late and didn't know when we would get into San Luis Obispo (about 60 miles away). Picture a full-size Greyhound bus highballing it down an old, curvy two-lane highway at 70 miles an hour, tailgating and passing slower cars as it gained speed. At this point, all conversations ceased as every passenger grasped their armrests and hung on for dear life. Near the back of the bus, four elderly passengers joined hands, recited Hail Mary's, and gave each other communion of Cheese Nips and swigs from a bottle of Ripple in a paper bag. I opted not to join them. The bus driver's demeanor reminded me of that scene from Dr. Strangelove where Slim Pickens road the atomic bomb down to its target...yahoo-ing and waving his ten-gallon stetson over his head! We were careening down the hill at 75 miles an hour toward the Highway 46/41 junction where James Dean died back in the fifties. How appropriate I die in a bus crash here?
Well, I am not writing this blog from a hospital bed, or worse, from the grave. I made it to Grover Beach 10 minutes ahead of schedule! I got to spend a couple of days with my mom near Pismo Beach, visit with son Jimmy, and pick up the car I had purchased. The trip back to Modesto in the 1992 Subaru SVX went smoothly. The seller even filled the gas tank before I picked up the car.
I also had time to hang out for a while at one of my favorite Central Coast ocean spots and visit with my sister Kris and brother-in-law Mark. Not to mention the quality time spent with my mom and my son. It was a good trip after all. And, I will send Disney a letter suggesting a new thrill ride at their theme parks!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
" I don't know. I'm making this up as I go!"
To coin a line from the first Indiana Jones movie seems appropriate right now. Yes, we saw the new Indiana Jones the other day...but that's not what this is all about. By the way, the movie wasn't as bad as some people say! Not great...not bad.
I've always been not only a dreamer, but a planner. Where I seem to short is in being a finisher. Or at least I have been accused of that (by others and by yours truly) for a long time. The reasons make no matter at this point in my life. But, my point is: Life is like the outline of a movie script or a novel. The actual finished version is realized one day at a time. The penciled-out scheme only makes it to print as each thing happens...including the ending.
I know a lot of people who could be considered better finishers than I am. But when asked about dreams and plans, they have no answer. It's not a bad thing, simply living in the moment, it's just the way some folks are (and some folks aren't).
I recently had a conversation with someone very close in age to myself. A conversation about dreams, plans, and the so-called "bucket list" some of us have. You know, that list of things to do before you kick the bucket? He has none. He does have the plan to retire from his long-standing job as early as possible and draw retirement. "What do you wanna do then?", I asked him with envious curiosity. "I don't know", he replied shrugging his shoulders, "I don't care. As long as I don't have to work any more". Well, I suppose that is indeed a "plan".
Sometimes it seems my plans and dreams are more Walter Mitty-esque than what could be described as pragmatic or realistic. So be it. One must continue to write (in pencil) that outline for life. Filling in the blanks as they present themselves. For life in the future is most certainly a blank canvas. The only completed works of art are in the past. There is no finish line. The only limitation is time...and that runs out before you know it. Game over.
Pass the nuts, please!
I've always been not only a dreamer, but a planner. Where I seem to short is in being a finisher. Or at least I have been accused of that (by others and by yours truly) for a long time. The reasons make no matter at this point in my life. But, my point is: Life is like the outline of a movie script or a novel. The actual finished version is realized one day at a time. The penciled-out scheme only makes it to print as each thing happens...including the ending.
I know a lot of people who could be considered better finishers than I am. But when asked about dreams and plans, they have no answer. It's not a bad thing, simply living in the moment, it's just the way some folks are (and some folks aren't).
I recently had a conversation with someone very close in age to myself. A conversation about dreams, plans, and the so-called "bucket list" some of us have. You know, that list of things to do before you kick the bucket? He has none. He does have the plan to retire from his long-standing job as early as possible and draw retirement. "What do you wanna do then?", I asked him with envious curiosity. "I don't know", he replied shrugging his shoulders, "I don't care. As long as I don't have to work any more". Well, I suppose that is indeed a "plan".
Sometimes it seems my plans and dreams are more Walter Mitty-esque than what could be described as pragmatic or realistic. So be it. One must continue to write (in pencil) that outline for life. Filling in the blanks as they present themselves. For life in the future is most certainly a blank canvas. The only completed works of art are in the past. There is no finish line. The only limitation is time...and that runs out before you know it. Game over.
Pass the nuts, please!
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